


Deconstruction in A minor

by snowpuppies



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When LA is sucked into hell, Oz is among the survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deconstruction in A minor

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Kitty Poker](http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/).

  
[ ](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/211468.html)   


______________________________  
With what attentive courtesy he bent  
Over his instrument;  
Not as a lordly conqueror who could  
Command both wire and wood,  
But as a man with a loved woman might,  
Inquiring with delight  
What slight essential things she had to say  
Before they started, he and she, to play.

\- _The Guitarist Tunes Up_, by Frances Cornford  
_________________________________________  


 

 

  


  
_She walks toward him, slowly._

_Her shy grin captures his heart; she holds it in her hands, between the gentle swell of her breasts, distended and round with desire._

_She slips out of her fuzzy pink sweater, dropping it on the rug before pushing her skirt to the floor._

_She blushes, slowly-seeping pink onto her neck and chest, as she reaches to unhook her bra._

_He stops her, fingers tangling with her soft, small ones, kissing each wriggling digit—her hands, her heart—as he opens the clasp._

_The bra falls to the floor and she's bare before him, nervously glancing away from his steady gaze, a lock of fiery hair falling into her eyes._

_Smooth, smooth skin beneath his fingers; he strokes her lovingly, admiring the music of her gasps and whimpers, fine-tuning the sensitive spots on her body until she's resonating in perfect pitch…_

_Her panties join the rest of her clothes on the rug._

_They tumble to the bed and her soft sighs echo in the silence; he pulls the credenza from her throat, kiss by kiss by kiss, touch by touch, thrust by thrust, joining her in duet, their cries cascading in harmony as the climax echoes in the stillness of the night and one soft word escapes her lips._

_"Oz."_

 

***

 

He was driving towards what he remembered to be a pretty good taco stand when all of a sudden, the earth jerked and he slammed on the brakes.

Huh. Must've been a 'quake.

Just as he was about to step on the gas, he noticed a big purple monster with sharp yellow teeth in the alley nearby. It looked like it was having a discussion with a creature who looked a bit like Skeletor from the He-Man cartoons he'd watched as a kid, except he was kinda green, and a little…_wet_-looking. They were exchanging something…drugs?

Wow. The neighborhood had certainly gone downhill since the last time he'd been there.

Turning left at the light, he remembered his He-Man lunchbox. Filled with nostalgia, he wished he knew where it had gone.

The taco stand was a bust. Well, really, it was more busted than _a_ bust, but either way, he wasn't getting tacos for lunch.

His stomach rumbled and he wondered if there was any place left to eat in L.A. He spotted a fairly normal-looking guy walking down the sidewalk ahead and drove forward. As he came closer, he could see that the guy was wearing one of those sandwich-signs. It read: The End is Here.

Glancing around, Oz figured he just might be right.

He rolled down the window.

"Hey!"

The guy kept walking.

"Hey!" Putting the car in Park, Oz leaned out the window, waving his arm. "Do you know where…" Blinking he trailed off. He felt so…_weird_.

Weirder than was normal for him.

A familiar itch started along his spine and his gums began to tighten. He was transforming.

In the middle of the day.

Gasping for breath, he reached for his meditation beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. Closing his eyes, he began his mantra, fighting to concentrate over the frantic thudding in his chest.

Struck by a wave of dizziness, he faltered, crying out as the bones in his face cracked and twisted.

Sounds faded.

The world turned grey.

And Oz slipped into unconsciousness.

 

***

 

_He wonders where she is, if perhaps he's misplaced her somewhere, underneath the sofa or behind the 'fridge._

_He searches, but isn't worried; he knows her scent, her touch, her voice. He'll find her in the end._

_He finds Skeletor in the washing machine._

_Crawling from the appliance, the cartoon shrugs and looks through a pile of laundry._

_He walks through the door, Skeletor following, and the Bronze is pumping. Devon wails from the stage and the guitar sings and the drums crash and Oz is without his bass._

_He pulls a bone from Skeletor's leg, but it only plays one note, one awful, terrible note that carries across the crowd all the way to the ocean._

_Skeletor walks into the water and glances back, waving a webbed hand before ducking under the swell of the waves._

_He's alone, now, sand below his feet; his shoes have disappeared._

_He cuts himself on a piece of glass and sits in the surf, watching as tendrils of red spread through the foam._

_He hears a voice from the hallway and stumbles from his bed._

_He didn't have to look; she found him, instead._

 

***

 

"Oi! Wolf."

Oz groaned, grimacing at the funky taste in his mouth; it almost reminded him of…

His body jerked with the memory, his hands clutching reflexively around the object threaded through his fingers. His beads were still there.

Closing his eyes once more, he began his mantra again, sighing as a cool calmness washed over him.

He could still feel the barest irritation at the nape of his neck, but he was in control for now.

"Wolf?"

Groaning, he sat up, blinking into the brightness…and a pair of blue eyes.

"Spike?"

"Got it in one, Wolfboy."

"Right. Where…? How…? Huh?"

Spike smirked, crossing his arms and leaning against the van's fender. "Can't say as I've been here before, but I'm pretty sure this is hell," he said, pointing to the sky.

Still a bit dazed, Oz followed Spike's gesture with his eyes, blinking when he saw both the sun and the full moon hovering in the sky.

"Weird."

"That about covers it."

"Huh. So are you still…?" Oz asked, gesturing to his head.

"Nah. All souled-up, now."

"Didn't know they were handing those out."

Gazing at the sun, Spike sighed. "Only if you're insane."

"Ah. Understandable." He watched Spike watch the sun. He wasn't entirely comfortable taking Spike's word about having a soul, but he figured if he was going to be eaten, he'd rather it be a vampire he knew than a big, scary monster he didn't that did the deed. Switching his gaze to the sky, he studied the moon; it wasn't so impressive next to the sun. "So…that moon thing, is it permanent, do you think?"

"Dunno. Imagine so." Glancing at Oz, Spike tilted his head. "It giving you problems?"

"I feel a little…itchy."

"You and me, both."

"Oh. Right." Oz nodded. The sun was Spike's enemy, just as the moon was his.

A great roar split the silence and Oz glanced over at Spike.

"Maybe we should…" Oz inclined his head towards the van.

"Right with you."

He got in the van, reaching for his keys as Spike crossed to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding into the seat.

Oz started the van.

"Oh, I put the girl in the back," Spike remarked offhandedly, pointing his thumb towards the rear of the van.

"Oh." Oz glanced in the mirror; sure enough, there was a girl slumped across the back seat. "She ok?"

Spike winced, turning away from Oz to look out the passenger window. "Don't know. She's…not been herself, lately." He fiddled with the door lock, pulling and pushing the knob, the click of the locks activating the only sound for a few moments. "Before, I mean."

"Ah." Oz glanced at the girl again. She was pretty, but he knew better than most that 'pretty' wouldn't save you from the monsters.

Turning his attention to the road, Oz began to navigate the cluttered streets, weaving through blocks of cement and tree limbs and car parts.

He'd just stopped at a red light when he noticed movement in the rear-view mirror; the girl in the back was sitting up, but…she looked like she was ready for a sci-fi convention.

"Uhm…" Not taking his eyes off the mirror, he reached out and tapped Spike's shoulder. "Is she supposed to do that?"

Looking back, Spike swore softly, sighing. "Suppose so."

The girl leaned forward, icy eyes focused on Spike. "What dimension is this?" Sliding over to the window, she studied the landscape, from the shattered buildings to the great purple tentacles sprouting from the ground. Glancing at Spike, she nodded. "This is more acceptable. The stench of rotting death—of blood and pain and despair—is heavy here. This will be…a challenge worthy of Illyria."

Spike grimaced—"Right. Glad you approve"—before returning his attention to Oz. "That's Illyria. Some sort of primordial God-King, only she's taken up residence inside Fred's skin. The other one's Fred, by the way."

"So…they're both sharing a body?"

"No. Well, at first it looked like Fred was gone, that Illyria had taken up residence and there was only room for one, see, but now…I can't help but wonder how much of Fred's really in there." Oz watched Spike watch…Fredlyria for a few moments, then shrugged and pulled into the intersection.

If there were any cops left, he supposed traffic violations would be pretty low on the radar.

He drove another three blocks before catching Spike's attention again. "Uh, Spike? Where are we going?"

"Bollocks. I thought you had a place in mind."

"No, I just… Well, we'll find something."

"Yeah."

Oz turned onto the freeway, accompanied by the rhythm of the van's locks engaging and disengaging.

 

***

 

They traveled for hours, meandering through the streets, stopping occasionally to pick up survivors—screeching to a halt, waging war against creatures so fantastically grotesque that even the Hellmouth had never seen their like, stumbling, crawling back to the van—until the vehicle was packed with people.

"We've got to stop."

"Hate to break it to you, mate, but I don’t think we're gonna find a working loo in this hellhole."

"It's not that—not that a bathroom wouldn't be nice, but—we're almost out of gas."

"And all the pumps we're passing…?"

"Are computer automated. They won't work if the system's off-line and…the power's fluctuating too much to keep a computer running." Signaling—although he didn't know why, since there wasn’t anyone else on the road—he turned onto a service road. "We've got to find one of the old ones."

Fifteen minutes later, they found a station, _and_ a place to stay, strange as it seemed. An old roadside amusement park was across the street from the station, its riderless attractions still and creepy in the strange twilight as the full moon passed over the sun.

The itch grew worse as Oz surveyed the park and he reached into his pocket for his beads.

Creepy or not, it had several inhabitable trailers and a large convention center that was intact.

It would do, for now.

After helping the survivors find a suitable place to sleep, Oz followed Spike to an abandoned trailer which was dusty inside, but had a sofa and a bed in the back room.

Grunting, Spike stumbled into the back.

Sighing, Oz bedded down on the sofa.

 

***

 

_It's cold._

_He shudders in an attempt to warm himself, wrapping arms around knees that are curled against his body to hide his nakedness._

_It's quiet._

_He doesn't know whether the quiet is better or worse; he really doesn't want to know what makes monsters scream._

_They're staring, glazed eyes fixed on his naked body, on his helplessness. Rows of faceless soldiers, grey-eyed and expressionless, mindless drones in the thrall of the white. Of the cold, white walls, white floors, white coats._

_White coats dancing in the halls, in perfect rhythm to the screams, to the howls and yelps and wails, the beat of research thrumming through the complex, knowledge and judgment rising in counterpoint as the soldiers march to the beat._

_He spins—they'll step on him, crush him beneath combat boots and unflinching stares—still naked, still helpless, and the white coats ask for a scalpel and the blood flows, fists clenched, straining against the cold until the white comes…_

_He fights, blinking, straining to see, to think, to breathe, to maintain even the barest amount of control, but the drugs sing a song that sticks in his head; he hums along as the white clouds his vision…_

 

***

 

Gasping, Oz fell onto the floor with a thump.

He could still feel the cold, seeping into his bones, both from the atmosphere and the scientists' inquisitive stares.

Shuddering, he huddled against the sofa, hugging his legs to his chest and hiding his face between his knees, fighting to keep the nightmare at bay.

It didn't work.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself from the floor and crept across the trailer. He shivered again as he pushed Spike's door open and peered into the darkness, courtesy of thick, heavy blankets over the windows.

Apparently, after a century, some habits were hard to kick.

"Wolf?"

"Yeah."

"Alright?"

"I… No."

The bed sheets rustled as Spike pulled back a corner and patted the mattress. "Come'ere."

Rubbing the chill from his arms, Oz maneuvered into the space between the bed and the wall and slid beneath the sheets, twisting and wriggling until he was cocooned in the blankets.

"'S wrong?" Spike's voice broke the stillness, loud in the dark.

"Nightmare."

"Know plenty about those."

Releasing a long, shuddery sigh, Oz turned his head to the wall. "Do you ever think about _it_?"

"What? The perfect Twinkie? Nah, that's Harris's shtick."

Despite himself, Oz felt the corner of his mouth curve upwards at the mention of Xander; he missed his Twinkie-loving friend.

"Twinkies aside, though, I meant…_them_…the Initiative."

Spike sucked in a breath. "'S not nice to hit a bloke below the belt before sunrise—or whatever the bleeding hell passes for sunrise in this hellhole."

The mattress dipped as Spike rolled away; Oz heard the crinkle of plastic and the snick of a lighter as a small flame lit the room. Spike's face was gaunt in the firelight, his eyes distant as he took a pull from his cigarette. The flame died, leaving the end of the cigarette glowing like an ember, floating eerily as Spike took it from his mouth.

"More often than a Baddie like myself cares to admit."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and warm and comfortable.

As Oz's eyelids grew weighted with sleep, he whispered into his pillow, "Thanks."

A cool hand pressed into the middle of his back and finally, he slept, undisturbed.

 

***

 

After a week of nightmares—waking in a cold sweat, flailing and falling from the sofa, stumbling into Spike's bed—the arrangement became permanent. After a long day of scavenging for water and food and supplies, battling vamps that came after the survivors and vandals who came after the supplies, they'd stumble into the small bed, bodies pressed together, Spike's limbs wrapped around his body as he sought Oz's warmth during the night.

The constant pull of the moon ensured that Oz never slept long. Most mornings he'd extract himself from Spike's grip and go for a jog around the park, but sometimes he'd simply lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own heartbeat, his own breathing, and Spike's occasional mutters about blood and sex and onion blossoms.

Sometimes, Spike got hard, rubbing himself against Oz's hip, nuzzling against his shoulder, whispering about want and desire and love.

He stared at the cracks in the window, or at the repeat of the grain in the veneered particle board of the cabinet fronts, and thought of Willow.

He'd never really been able to get her out of his mind.

She was always…_there_…her sweet smile and the sparkle in her eyes…

It wasn't about mating or the Wolf or any of the mumbo-jumbo he'd read in some of Giles's journals, it was about _Willow_…

…nothing more and nothing less.

She'd captured his heart and he'd never even wanted to ask for a return.

Sighing, he rolled over, feeling Spike shift to mold against his back, slipping a cool arm around his waist, and prayed for sleep.

 

***

 

_His hands are empty._

_He feels useless, hollow and plastic like a mannequin._

_He can't remember what it was like, before._

_He hears its sadness; cries rising like birds to the heavens, then plunging into the depths in coarse, rhythmic shouts._

_His guitar is weeping._

_In the hands of a Polgara, who plucks at its strings like picking feathers from a chicken, ripping the sounds from deep inside, where the notes are jumbled and confused, keys mixing, timing uneven and fitful, full of sudden stops and pauses, caesura and fermata in an infinite loop._

_In the hands of a Brachen, who twists the pegs 'round and 'round, laughing merrily as the strings creak and snap, percussive and sharp staccato rising above the universe, falling into disrepair and disfunction. No more music to be found._

_His fingers twitch in the empty air._

_His guitar weeps, still._

 

***

 

He was snooping through the supply closets in the convention center when he stumbled onto Fred, who was leaning over a conglomerate of green circuit boards.

She looked up, dropping a screwdriver as the door clicked shut behind him. "Oh! Hey, Oz."

"Hey, Fred."

"That's me. It's short for Winifred, but no one calls me that. Just Fred."

"Yeah, I'd heard that." Oz hid his grimace. Spike had mentioned Fred wasn't herself; it was the third time she'd told him her name.

Smiling, she held out her hand. "You want some peanuts?"

Oz shook his head.

"Alright,"—she tossed the handful of nuts into her mouth and continued in between chewing—"but there's plenty where these came from, if you change your mind. I found 'em in the green shed out back, the one with the tin roof? I think they were for the elephants. Do you think they had elephants?"

"I don't think that amusement parks have elephants. That's usually more of a circus thing."

"Oh." Fred's face fell a little.

"I could be wrong, though. It's been a while since I've been to one of these, when it was actually running, I mean."

"No. You're probably right. I guess they just…fed them to people. People like peanuts, too."

"Yeah, people are funny like that."

"Anyways, I was looking for more parts—thought I'd make myself useful and see if I could find a way to contact home, or the others, at least—but there weren't any electronics, just goobers." She sighed, popping another handful of nuts into her mouth. "Lots and lots of goobers."

She bent to retrieve the screwdriver, then straightened, squinting at the mess on the table. She fiddled a bit, then turned the knob on a radio faceplate she'd hooked to the contraption.

The room was filled with scratchy static for a few moments while Fred tweaked her creation.

"Hmm," Fred murmured as music began to play from a speaker that looked like it had been pulled from an automobile. Oz made a mental note to check the van when he left.

"Guess I'm picking up the wrong frequency." Fred's brow furrowed a bit as she peered at the circuitry, then she shrugged and smiled. "I was going for communication, but the music's nice, too, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Oz closed his eyes and the rhythms and chords washed over him—he hadn't realized how much he'd missed _music_, although it made sense that he'd have to do without the thing he loved most in hell. His fingers itched for a guitar as he strummed the air in time with the music.

He'd abandoned his last guitar—his favorite guitar—near a McDonald's on Interstate 5 to make room for another survivor, and he was keenly feeling its loss.

He wondered, momentarily, if he might be able to find it, but the chances of it being intact after Godzilla and Company rampaged through the streets was slim at best.

Glancing up, he saw Fred, grinning and swaying in rhythm.

He was never the dancing type, more the stand-and-play type, but he extended his hand to Fred anyways.

He was always a little wary of getting too close to Fred—she babbled a lot and had a big brain that reminded him of Willow, and that _hurt_—but he just couldn't seem to resist the sweet, childlike smile. Besides, everyone needed a friend in hell, and Spike treated her like a china doll while the others, wary of her Blue moments, steered clear.

And, truthfully, Oz was glad to know such a good person still existed in the world.

So they danced and twirled until the music stopped for commercial, and Oz hugged her close and thanked God that Willow wasn't living through this disaster.

 

***

 

He stared into the darkness as the mattress dipped under Spike's weight.

He was tired of hell.

He was tired of struggling, tired of being hungry, of being afraid, of not knowing if everyone he knew would be dead in the morning.

Jaw tightening, his breath began to quicken.

He wanted to scream.

Just as he thought he'd explode, a cool hand found his and their fingers twined together.

He squeezed tightly; Spike squeezed back. Together they squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, until Oz's fingers first began to ache and then grew numb.

He growled unhappily as a strong arm wrapped around his chest and forcefully pulled him into Spike's cool body, yelping when sharp fangs ripped into the muscle in his shoulder.

He'd wondered when it would be his turn. So many others had died; it was only a matter of time until he joined them. Closing his eyes, he relaxed, falling limp in Spike's arms, against Spike's mouth, breathing shallow and lethargic.

When Spike's mouth pulled away, tongue lapping at the wound, Oz gasped, eyes popping open to stare into the shadows.

"Spike?"

"Shhhh." Gentle hands gripped his shoulders, pulling until he was flat on his back—"'S alright, pet"—and soft, smooth lips brushed against his mouth.

For a moment, he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't blink…

…and then he opened his mouth.

He groaned as Spike's tongue slipped inside, twining with his own, tracing the lines of his palate, his gums. The coppery taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he grappled for purchase on Spike's chest, one hand slipping to a smooth back, the other to knot in Spike's hair as he tugged the cool body onto his own.

He wanted to think of soft smiles and curvy hips, of green eyes and small, tentative hands, but the fear and desperation and hunger were wearing away at him, day by day, and, combined with the maddening prickle of the moon on his skin, he needed something. Something hard and rough and strong and fierce, something physical, something overwhelming, something to make the world fall away…

Spike's wandering hands tugged the elastic of his boxers, pulling them down and off and then there was nakedness, hard chests colliding, legs winding together, cocks rubbing and thrusting, one against the other.

Thoughts of hell and death and monsters were swept from his mind as muscular hands gripped his hips, nearly lifting him from the bed as his groin was pressed against Spike's thigh, one of Spike's legs sliding between his own.

It was a different sensation, slick with sweat and heat while his partner remained cool, moistened only by the opaque fluid oozing from their pricks.

Lips latched onto his neck, sucking and nibbling and licking at the sensitive skin; he cried out, fingers clenching and tugging on Spike's hair. A half-growl, half-moan was ripped from his chest as blunt teeth pressed into his wounded shoulder; yowling, he bucked, flipping Spike onto his back.

Landing astride Spike's hips, he sat a moment, surveying the landscape. Spike was smooth and pale and flawless, youth captured for eternity, splayed out before him, waiting to be marked.

He leaned forward, capturing Spike's lips in a deep, wet kiss, teeth clacking together with the biting force. Ripping himself away, he began to gnaw on Spike's flesh—the tender tendons of his neck, the rippling muscles in his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest and abdomen, the tiny peaks of his nipples. The skin became red and abraded under his mouth, his cock throbbing with each grunt pulled from Spike's wicked mouth.

Glancing up, he watched Spike, eyes closed, biting his lip, fingers twisted in the sheets. A wave of lust rolled through his body and he launched himself towards Spike's mouth, teeth sinking into the fleshy lower lip as his hips rocked into the cradle of Spike's legs. Heat pooled in his stomach, flickering into his arms and legs, shooting up his spine until finally sparking between his legs. Hips juddering against Spike's abdomen, he came, slumping onto Spike's chest as he, too, shuddered his completion.

He panted against the flawless skin of Spike's chest, face pressed against the wonderfully cool body as fingers began to trail through his hair.

"Alright?" Spike's voice was gravelly and soft and oddly sexy.

"Think so." He sighed, feeling boneless and wrung-out and wonderful.

Hell could wait until morning.

 

***

 

_She's just as beautiful as he'd remembered. _

_He gazes at the dimple in her cheek, soaks up her sweet smell, imagines how she'll feel beneath his hands, his body, writhing together in concert, their reunion explosive and desperate, sheets tangled into a cocoon._

_But her smell is different._

_She smells of another._

_Possessive rage floods his body; he growls, stretching and twisting in remembered moonlight, spitting and roaring and he wants to kill, wants to rend and tear and devour._

_Blood fills his mouth, blonde hair splayed across the floor like a blanket._

_Her screams are like church bells; he worships inside her torso, taking unto himself her body and blood and life._

_He gorges himself on meat, on this usurper who would steal her away, to rob him of her sweet smile, her gentle hands, the soft skin of her belly. So he takes his revenge: the other will smile no more, hands never touching, belly always empty._

_But he is satisfied._

_The other is vanquished, and **she** is his._

 

***

 

Days and weeks melted into months

They sent out search parties to scavenge for supplies; they were always a little different on return. Sometimes, the party had grown, picking up stray humans who'd managed to avoid death by monster. More often than not, they returned a few men short.

Sometimes, they didn't return at all.

In her Blue moments, Fredlyria played Lord of the Manor, dispatching rival creatures with relish.

The rest of the time, Spike used bluster and bullshit to keep the encroaching monsters at bay.

It was a strange half-life, the monotonous weight of the day-to-day struggle to find enough to eat broken by stark moments of terror in a fight for their lives.

Occasionally, though, there were smiles and friendship and laughter.

He and Fred kept fiddling with her radio, giggling and enjoying music when a new station was found, frowning and puzzling over resistors and capacitors and oscillators when they received nothing but static.

They spent three days fashioning a guitar out of a modified shovel and some piano wire; it wasn't terribly in-tune, but Oz lovingly strummed it in time to whatever music was on offer for the day, be it Rock or Hip Hop or New Age.

In her drive for communicating with the rest of her friends, Fred was working on a new device, using the parts she'd not needed for their radio.

Not paying much attention, Oz was blissfully picking away at his guitar while Fred frowned and mumbled and calculated until the device began to pick up a signal.

"_Will……erg is in...tody. I repeat……llow Ro….erg is in custody._"

The guitar fell from Oz's fingertips, clattering to the ground as he strode across the room to stare at the radio.

"Willow."

"Oh. That didn't sound good, did it?" Fred bit her lip, twisting the dial to clarify the signal.

"_…..threat to nation…..curity….an…dangerous._"

"Willow." The skin on the back of Oz's neck began to prickle, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

Someone had Willow.

"What is this?" he growled.

Fred squeaked. "I—I'm not sure. It sounds like…military? But that doesn't make a heap of sense, seein' as how you probably need some sort of code to get in, and Willow doesn't seem to be all that threatening, really."

"Except for the hacking." His gums were itching again.

"And the…major mojo." Fred grimaced.

The tingle spread down Oz's spine. He frantically searched his pockets for his meditation beads, but surmised they must've fallen out of his pocket earlier in the day when he and Spike had torn each other's clothes off.

Sinking to the floor, he tried to control his breathing.

Willow was in danger.

Howling in agony as his skin began to stretch, he didn't notice Fred running out the door. The colors in the room faded to grey as his pupils began to dilate; the smells became stronger as his senses sharpened. He squirmed as the prickle spread from his spine across his back, rolling onto the floor and wriggling against the irritation.

"Oz."

He looked up at his name; Spike was in the doorway, Fred hovering anxiously behind, peeking over his shoulder.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he managed to speak—"Change. Go"—before collapsing to the floor.

Spike pushed Fred out of the room and closed the door.

Finally the pain stopped. Oz glanced down at his hands; they were still human, slightly clawed with tufts on the back, but he hadn't changed completely.

He bared his teeth at the scent of vampire as Spike came closer.

"'S alright, pet. Keep breathing."

Oz shook his head as the smell came closer; it was at the same time threatening and irresistible. His claws itched to rend and tear, his fangs to sink into flesh, to indulge in the taste and smell of fresh meat.

"Spike…go." His words came out more a growl than anything else.

"Not going anywhere, love. Gonna stay right here." Spike crouched where he stood, slowly creeping forward on his knuckles and knees. "Tell me what you need, Oz."

Oz turned away, a whine bubbling from his chest as he fought to keep from pouncing on Spike and tearing him to shreds. Trembling, he sank his claws into the floor, relishing the feel of the wood splitting beneath his fingers.

Suddenly, the smell of Alpha vampire changed, _twisted_, to become less threatening and more appealing. Turning his head slightly, he glanced at Spike from the corner of his eye. A bolt of lust spread through him at the sight of Spike on his back, belly vulnerable and throat exposed. Before he could stop himself, he was across the floor, nose and mouth pressed against Spike's neck, growling and nipping and soaking in the smell of submission.

His cock surged to life as Spike whimpered under his fangs.

Teeth and claws ripped at Spike's clothes, shredding the material like lettuce; Spike was perfectly still, lying compliant under razor-sharp fangs. Snuffling along the line of Spike's sternum, he licked a path down the pale abdomen, stopping to gnaw gently on a sharp hipbone. Licking happily at the dark, sluggish blood that oozed from the wound, his ears pricked up as he noticed Spike was speaking, slowly and softly.

"..let go, pet. Let me help, I can take it…"

Oz felt as if he were coming apart at the seams. On one hand, there was his friend, Spike—his _good_ friend—willing to endure being ripped to shreds to help him regain his control…

And on the other hand, there was an Alpha offering his submission.

His mind was filled with the need to take, to _claim_, to thrust and bury himself into the body on offer. He grappled with Spike's torso and flipped him over, Spike's soft litany of acceptance and encouragement enflaming the heat that blossomed in his stomach, in the pads of his hands and feet, in his groin.

Panting, he ripped his jeans and boxers off, groaning in relief as his aching dick was released into the cool air. He sniffed along the nape of Spike's neck, licking and nicking the skin, lapping at the blood while his claws sank into cool hips and pulled Spike to his knees. His cock, heavy and engorged with blood, brushed against the curve of Spike's ass; he growled, nails raking down Spike's sides, leaving narrow crimson stripes in their wake.

Shifting his hips, he aligned his cock with Spike's entrance. As he began to push forward, some small part of his mind protested at the thought of ripping his friend open and he slid down a curved back, pressing his face in between pale cheeks, tongue diving into the tiny dark hole there. He slurped frantically, fingers digging into Spike's buttocks while he cursed and jerked his hips into Oz's face. Stabbing insistently into the hole, he worked to open Spike up, eating into his body without mercy, his need too great, too immediate, to be gentle.

Giving the opening one last slurping kiss, he slid up the trembling frame and rammed into the inviting entrance. Hot and cold flashed over him as he fucked into the body below, all rational thought driven away by the animalistic need to thrust, thrust, thrust…

His hands scrabbled along Spike's chest, his sides, his shoulders, squeezing and groping possessively. The slapping of his balls against Spike's thighs echoed in the small room, driving him into a frenzy of need and want and lust.

A dreadful yowl bubbled up from his chest as pleasure surged through his body like a shockwave, pulsing and flowing to center in his groin. Hips jerking against Spike's ass as he attempted to thrust further, to press his come into the depths of Spike's body and proclaim himself Alpha, he roared, sinking his teeth into the nape of a smooth neck until his fangs touched bone.

With a thundering growl, he released Spike, who collapsed onto the floor.

Rumbling happily, he licked the new wound and settled onto the still body below to rest.

He drew in two deep, peaceful breaths, then screamed as the Wolf receded, bones shifting, hair shedding, fangs retracting. He writhed against Spike's back, slipping onto the slick floor. Banging his elbow against a table leg, he yelped and cradled the sore spot while the rest of his body shuddered and jerked as he became Oz once more.

He slowly became aware of a soft, steady voice and cool fingertips carding through his hair. Sighing, he slumped against Spike's body, whimpering at the bone-deep ache of a partial transformation.

"Alright, pet?"

He shuddered as Spike's breath tickled his neck, nodding. "Did I hurt you?"

"Nah." One of Spike's hands found his clenched fist, insinuating long, elegant fingers between his short, square ones. "Was bloody good. Came like a sodding train wreck, in case you didn't notice."

Grunting, Oz shifted until he could look up at the ceiling. "Don't think I did, to be honest."

He let his eyes flutter shut as slightly chapped lips rubbed against his jaw.

"'S alright," Spike muttered, nudging Oz's chin with his nose until Oz opened his eyes. Leering, he continued, "Can make it up to me, tonight."

Oz blinked into laughing blue eyes. "I think I can do that."

Heaving himself to his feet, Spike extended a hand. "Come on, Wolf. Gotta go find some new kit," he said, gesturing to the pile of rags that were once Spike's t-shirt and jeans.

"Oh. I'm so sorry, man." Oz grimaced, rubbing his forehead.

"Hey." Spike turned to face Oz, arms spread out inviting Oz's eyes to take in his naked flesh, marred by red and purple scratches and bite marks. "No big—'s not like I can't carry it off. Just…don't want to scare the kiddies."

"Right." Oz scrambled to his feet, tugging on his jeans, scowling a bit at a missing button and fastening his belt tightly.

He looked up as Spike was opening the door.

"Hey, Spike?"

Spike looked back over his shoulder. "What?"

"I think I've been saying this a lot, but…thanks."

"No need. Got to stick together in this place." Smiling gently, Spike turned and exited the room.

Tugging on his sneakers, Oz followed.

 

***

 

_Her eyes are haunted._

_She peers at nothing through the bars, green eyes dull, hair matted and dirty._

_He reaches, fingertips grazing the cool metal, just a touch, just the barest touch, and her eyes meet his and her lips move in silent plea—"Help"—and he stretches, but he's moving away, struggling against invisible hands that pull him away, away, away from her, far from her pleading mouth, her frightened eyes._

_She reaches through the bars, fingers grasping in the dark, while her mouth, still voiceless, repeats the same soundless plea, over and over, until all he can see through the shadows is her mouth, her lips, her teeth, her tongue, asking again and again for his help._

_The darkness creeps in; just before she fades from sight, she slumps to the ground, green eyes dull._

 

***

 

"Oz, your rook won't move like that."

"Oh, that's a rook? Here I was, thinking it was a knight." He surveyed the row of identical tokens they were using as chess pieces; it was bad enough playing checkers with them, but with so many different pieces represented, he just couldn't keep track. Of course, Fred had no trouble keeping up with which token represented knights and pawns and queens.

"Aren't you gonna move it back?"

"I'm pretty sure that's my knight."

"No, it's a rook. Look, this one"—she pointed at a token—"is your knight."

"I think you're trying to cheat." He knew very well she was right, but there was something about having an argument, even a friendly one, that kept him engaged, drove away the darkness and made him want to keep living.

Fred's eyes widened, comically. "Cheat? I never cheat!" Crossing her arms over her chest, she attempted a scowl, failing miserably when he smiled at her. Sniffing slightly, she turned her head. "Besides, you know I don't have to cheat to win."

"Are you sure?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Now, now, kiddies"—a smooth, accented voice interrupted their banter—"Settle down, or I'll have to put you over my lap."

Giggling, Fred glanced up at him, eyes glinting mischievously. "You're gonna need a better threat, Spike. I think Oz might like the sound of that."

"Hey. I think I resemble that remark."

"Well, at least—"

Fred was interrupted by a scream. Immediately, brown eyes faded to blue and Illyria rose from her seat, nostrils flaring as if she could smell the monsters as they approached. "Spike, ready yourself for combat. The foe is ravenous and tires of playing games."

"Right." Spike stood, swinging his jacket across his shoulders dramatically and following Illyria towards the sounds of war.

Oz darted into the supply room and grabbed his guitar-shovel before following the sounds of clanking swords and screams of pain.

As he approached the battle, he paused, jaw dropping at the sheer numbers of demons; this was no random vamp attack, this was an annihilation.

Gritting his teeth, he charged into the fray.

_Swipe. Thrust. Stab._ He wielded his shovel as best as he could against the horde, using the pointed end to slice into the skin of those without armor plating, the blunt end to stab at eyes or genitals or other vulnerable spots.

He lost track of time, moving from one opponent to another, dodging and rolling and striking when he was able, scrambling to his feet when he couldn't avoid being hit.

When a monster with lurid yellow scales and small, sharp, pointy teeth pinned him to the ground, mouth open and poised for the kill, he felt the Wolf rise in the strange half-transformation he'd achieved before.

And suddenly, he was hungry for blood.

Surging from the ground, he sank his fangs into the yellow demon, ripping its throat out before charging towards a vamp who had Anne—a girl he'd found hiding under an overpass three weeks ago—by the shoulders, gaping maw of teeth threateningly close to her neck.

His claws sank into the vamp's back, raking downwards and opening the flesh in deep furrows of recycled blood that flowed like tar down the vamp's legs.

The vamp's screams were cut short when Oz snapped its neck.

He'd just moved on to a huge demon with bulging purple eyes and a strange blue ooze seeping from his skin when he heard a familiar shout.

Turning, he gasped as he watched a stake plunge into Spike's chest.

The howling wind caught the ash and blew it towards Illyria, who screamed for Spike as the blue melted away and Fred sank to her knees.

Heart in his throat, Oz charged across the field dodging claws and swords and fists, and he was almost there, just a few feet more…

…and the world went black.

 

***

 

He grunted as he woke and his body exploded in pain.

He ached from head to toe, and in some places he never knew existed. He rolled to his stomach, struggling to get his knees under him, the clank of chains loud in the quiet room.

He was in…some kind of giant kennel, surrounded on all six sides by metal bars, although there was a thin cotton pad beneath him, cushioning his knees from the uncomfortable floor.

A washer and dryer were to his left, another cage to his right.

He was caged like some urbanite's dog, kenneled and put away to bark and growl behind closed doors.

He peered into the other cage: Fred was curled up in a corner, eyes glazed. Hugging her knees to her chest, she rocked back and forth, repeating: "I'm not a cow. I'm not a cow. I'm not a cow."

"Fred?" His voice was hoarse and his throat protested at his attempt to speak.

Fred didn't answer.

"Fred?" He forced himself to speak through the pain. "Fred?"

She didn't acknowledge his existence, never stopping her mumbled assertion.

"Shit."

He slumped to the floor, a broken sob wrenching itself from his chest. He buried his face in the cushion. It was blue and smelled like dog pee.

He smiled, sadly. His hair had been blue once; Willow had kissed his nose and said she'd always had a thing for Smurfs.

Closing his eyes, he prayed for death to come quickly.

 

***

 

_She's a vision: bright green eyes, flaming hair, sweet, supple curves…_

_He's fascinated by the sway of her hips as she comes closer._

_Her lips are soft against his own, she tastes of chocolate-chip cookies and cappuccinos, of hope and love and happiness._

_He sighs as she pulls away, then whimpers as she takes a step, then another, in the opposite direction._

_Hope flees in her wake and the unnatural yellow-green of twilight floods his cage._

_"I'm sorry, Oz." Willow's voice echoes in his ears._   


 

 

 

_______________________________________  
here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

\- From _i carry your heart with me_, by E. E. Cummings  
___________________________________________________  


 

 

_FIN_.[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/211468.html).


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